Sweet Revenge
by MaverickJokar
Summary: When a respected Mafia figure is murdered, Nicky Clericuzo is asked to step in and straighten things out. But when Tommy Vercetti’s little brother ends up dead, Tommy’s out for revenge.
1. Disclaimer

Disclaimer:  
  
This story is a work of fiction. It is from the imaginations of Maverick Point and EvilJokar. We have extracted the characters, settings, moods, and names from GTA3 and GTAVC, which are both owned by Rockstar and Rockstar North. Our storyline does not follow that of the games'. Our storyline is original and so are our characters: Chris Vercetti, Nikolas Clericuzo and the rest of his family. We are not making any profit from this story. If you have any questions or comments, either put them in the review, or write to us at richsykopath@juno.com. Enjoy the story.  
  
EvilJokar- Maverick Point- 


	2. The Hit

After the great Mafia blitz in 1987, there were only two families left to squabble over the pieces of Liberty City, New York. One was that of Marcantonio Clericuzo, who was a man known for his ruthless brutality and his empire built upon a river of blood. He was merciless, never letting the smallest thing slip by him. He was always out for a kill, like a wolf hunting prey. He was alert at all times, just waiting for someone somewhere to mess something up. The other family that had managed to come out on top was under the firm rule of Salvatore Leone, who was nearly equal in power, but was a far inferior man. While he reigned over the streets of the Portland district of Liberty City, Clericuzo had quickly executed the take- over of the entire state. Leone was smaller and less respected, hence it was easy for Clericuzo to absorb the Leone family and make it part of his own. The mob empire of Liberty City was established quickly after that. It wasn't until a young man who didn't care which side he played came along that the well-established kingdom of Don Clericuzo finally began to crumble.  
  
"What is this?" Don Clericuzo sat in the office of his three story mansion and center station in Shoreside Vale, calmly puffing on a cigar, his eyes slowly perusing a piece of yellowed paper with very small type. The smoke from his charge curled lazily up to the ceiling and created a thick veil over the entire room. The office was dark; the only light came from a small lamp at the corner of the Don's desk. Through all the smoke, the tiny lamp only managed to cast a weak orange glow.  
  
The Don was a tall man with masculine features and dark brown hair that was beginning to go gray at an accelerated pace with his age. He was approaching his mid fifties, but his intense brown eyes still glowered at the world from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses with all the youthful ambition of a kid half his age. He always wore a neatly tailored suit in either black or charcoal along with a tie in either silver or black. His style almost never strayed from that. He was a well-manicured killer.  
  
The small, fat man across the room shifted uncomfortably, measuring the Don's temper. He was a messenger whose name nobody ever remembered. Don Clericuzo continued to read the paper, leaning back in his chair like he was reading a good book. He put his cigar down in a glass ashtray on the desk and rubbed his chin.  
  
"I knew this man had switched sides, but I didn't know he would have the balls to come back here and start ripping off my assets, my people, under the name of the Yakuza! What, is the boy crazy? After all Salvatore Leone did for him. After all I have done for him, he betrays me?" Don Clericuzo crumpled the paper up angrily and tossed it over his shoulder. Someone in a gray suit and tie jumped from a dark corner and picked it up, throwing it into the trashcan without so much as a word.  
  
"Our boys down at the club said the kid was shooting from the rooftop of the building across the street. No one saw him until it was too late and Old Salvatore was watering the streets. They chased him once they saw him hit the street, but he jumped into a Yakuza car and was gone," Johnny Portella said from where he stood near the large oak door. He was a tall, wiry man wearing a brown suit and a blindingly white shirt. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he spoke in a quiet, reserved tone.  
  
"If you want, I can send Jimmy to straighten the kid out," Cesare Portella asked. He was almost an exact copy of his twin brother Johnny. The only difference between them was their eye color. While Johnny's were green, Cesare's sparkled a bright blue. He watched the Don shake his head gravely. The Don picked up his cigar again and took a few thoughtful puffs from it. He smiled suddenly.  
  
"No, I have decided what I want to do about this," he announced. "Bring me Nicky. Get Nicky in here." The room fell silent. No one had expected Don Clericuzo to bring in Nicky. Everyone thought that maybe he'd send out someone to persuade the Yakuza kid back into working for the Mafia again. After all, the boy was good, and all organizations could use a man like him. But bringing Nicky in meant that the Don wanted the kid dead, and Nicky against the kid was likely to turn into all out war.  
  
Johnny Portella turned around and pushed open the office door without a word. He closed it behind him. Don Clericuzo crushed the end of the cigar out and steeped his fingers, awaiting the arrival of his best assassin. Nicky was known all over the city as the most efficient killer and wheelman to ever hit the streets. Commoners and Mafia enemies trembled at the sound of his name. But he was not only was he a cold-hearted murderer to took lives without remorse; he was also Don Clericuzo's only treasured son. The Don had every confidence that he would get the job done. He always did.  
  
Johnny returned a moment later followed closely by a young man of about twenty-five years. This was, of course, Nikolas Valerius Clericuzo. He was a handsome kid with dark brown hair and fierce eyes. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was tall enough to be considered above average height. He was built like a boxer, showing the strength in his chiseled features. He wore a pair of faded black cargo pants and a white t-shirt. He smiled a little when he saw his father.  
  
"What do you have for me today, Pop?" He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants and came to a halt just in front of his father's desk. He lowered the pair of dark sunglasses he wore so he could easily see over them. The smoke filled atmosphere of the office immediately impeded his sight, and he needed to wait for his eyes to adjust.  
  
Don Clericuzo graced his son with a smile. "It's good to see you fairing well, Nikolas. We have a problem on our hands, and I believe you may be our only hope to solve it. Do you remember the man who worked as our wheelman and runner for a few months? The one who always wore a black leather jacket?"  
  
Nick nodded. "You mean the guy who never really talked much?"  
  
"That's right," Don Clericuzo confirmed. "Well it seems he has switched sides on us rather abruptly. He's working for the Yakuza, and he's been tearing up everything downtown. I've just gotten word that he gunned down Salvatore Leone last night. I can't have him running a muck out there anymore. Do you understand what I am asking you to do?"  
  
Nick considered this for a long moment without saying anything. Yes, of course he understood the task he was being charged with, but it was something to consider very carefully. To kill the man his father spoke of was like trying to kill a lion. It would be difficult, and he doubted he would walk away unscathed. The man was the first person Nick had ever met who could rival his abilities. He had a sort of respect for him. But he couldn't let that get in the way, especially if his father wanted the guy dead.  
  
"All right," he said at last. "No problem."  
  
Christian Anthony Vercetti was a man that many feared. Some people even referred to him as a monster. But to Chris, it was just business. He was a trained killer, not a monster. His style was unique; laid back, but always alert. His deep brown eyes were dark, but instinctive, trained like those of a hawk. But tonight, he was tired; his sharp eyes were exhausted, almost like the intensity had been drained from them.  
  
He pulled off the road into a little alley that was that led to his hideout. He pulled into his two-car garage and parked his red and white Stinger, a car that screamed the colors of the Yakuza. He turned off the engine and lazily got out of his car, moving slowly as if he had all the time in the world. He thought of the past events from that afternoon. Another hit for the Yakuza, another death for the Mafia. This time the unlucky prick had been Toni Cipriani, the Mafia's extortionist. Chris chuckled to himself as he recalled Toni's face as he looked down the barrel of the Deagle. Toni's face had been twisted with fear and anxiety. One shot between the eyes was all it took to bring down Salvatore's right-hand man  
  
He stepped into the elevator and was taken up to his room. When the metal doors opened he was greeted with the warmth of his small apartment. The ceiling fan hummed quietly, casting a slight breeze. He stepped off the lift and on to the soft red carpet that occupied the entire floor. He kicked off his shoes and noticed something on the glass table in front of him that he hadn't seen when he came in. In a little black ashtray, a single cigarette burned, thin gray smoke rose lightly to the ceiling.  
  
Chills ran down Chris's spine, and goose bumps began to surface on the back of his neck. Someone had been waiting for him. He heard the familiar sound of a hammer clicking back. All in one motion he spun around and knocked the gun from his assailant's hand. A white-knuckled fist connected with Chris' nose. He stumbled back and fell onto his sofa. He put a hand up to his face; it came away slippery with blood. He looked up and saw a familiar face.  
  
"Nick," he mumbled angrily as he sat up. Jumping to his feet in one well practiced and fluid movement, he charged at the other man. Chris slammed Nick against the wall and then threw him to the ground.  
  
"Out doing more chores for your daddy, Nicky," he yelled as he kicked the fallen man in the ribs. Chris walked over to the table to grab his gun. When he turned around, though, he was met with the barrel of a Colt Magnum. Without second thought he dove out of the way just as Nick pulled the trigger. A shot rang out in to the little room and a vase shattered to the floor.  
  
"Dad," Chris yelled as ashes spread across the floorboards. His eyes flickered in anger as he stared coldly at Nick. He had been trusted with those ashes, and he had sworn to make sure they would be safe. Now they had been completely violated. He held up his own gun and fired a single round that hit Nick in the left shoulder. He yelped in pain as he grasped his shoulder fell to the ground. Chris walked slowly towards him; his gun out in front of him, trained at Nick's head  
  
. "You thought you could kill me?" Chris said intensely.  
  
"You betrayed my father, after all he's done for you!" Nick yelled as he tripped Chris with his right foot. He grabbed his Magnum and held it at Chris' face. Chris' anger turned to icy fear, his face very similar to that of Toni's before he had killed him. A grin surfaced across Nick's face as he shot every last bullet in his gun. 


	3. Preparation

Vice City, normally so clam and tinted with the glitz and glamour of orange and pink, was in massive turmoil. The furious waters of the sea crashed against the darkened sands, rapt in tearing down the man-made tropical empire. Rain pounded down at a nearly horizontal angle with enough force to pierce the skin of hapless beachcombers who had no not expected such a sudden squall. As thunder roared it's fury in the rolling black clouds overhead, lightning split the sky asunder, dancing an endless waltz with the howling winds, and on a tiny island situated in the center of the Vice City Straight, a residence stood against the gale without much effort.  
  
Mother Nature, so intent on drowning the world, shrieked her ferocity, rattling the windowpanes of the grand house, and sending the electricity into convulsions. Still, the mansion remained undaunted, much like its inhabitants. Business inside the Vercetti Estate went on normally, well as normally as business got there. Owner and instigator of the establishment, Thomas James Vercetti, sat behind his immense oak desk, leaned back in his leather chair with his fingers interlaced in front of his chin. His elbows sat on the top of the desk as he watched the tiny light on its surface flicker feebly. It eventually situated itself in a state somewhere between being on and black out. Tommy squinted against the uncomfortable orange glow it was emitting and frowned. It looked like the weather was winning the battle.  
  
Another bout of thunder rumbled by, quiet at first, and then amassing into a colossal explosion that shook the heavens and sent shockwaves from the hearts and souls of all who heard it. The desk light, along with just about everything else in the house shorted out and failed to operate, plunging the house into desolate darkness. Tommy didn't move, and he sad silent for a long moment before shouting in a loud, clear voice,  
  
"Rosenberg!"  
  
The sound of breaking glass echoed noisily through the cavernous estate, followed almost immediately by muffled cursing. "I'm on it," Ken Rosenberg voice came floating back through the house and to the office. There was a pause as Tommy's lawyer contemplated just what it was he was supposed to be doing. Tommy waited, rolling his eyes. He sighed. Ken was probably too messed up on whatever it was that he was snorting to even see straight. "Uh, Tommy?" Ken's voice returned.  
  
"What is it, Ken?" Tommy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, knowing that this whole stupid process could take a very long time. Ken sat up in that little office Tommy had given him in the house to "run things out of" and sniffed the white powder all day. Tommy knew this and regretted the fact that the man was a true junkie. Not that he was all that bright to begin with.  
  
"What wall is that switch thing on?"  
  
Tommy sighed. "Forget it, Ken. Hold still. Don't move. You'll break something. Just stay where you are and I'll be there in a minute. Okay? I'll do it myself." He pushed himself up, using the desk as his lever and narrowed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to see through the darkness. He felt his way out of the office and out to the banister that stood on the outer edges of the main staircase. He made his decent slowly, taking care not to lose his balance. The last thing he wanted was to fall down the stairs. What a way to hurt yourself. Tommy had always found falling to down a flight of stairs to be a rather embarrassing method of injury. He'd much rather be shot.  
  
Eventually, after bumping into the table in the hallway, Tommy reached the recreation room located off to the right of the massive front door. He tripped over a pizza box that seemed strategically placed in his path and cursed as he stumbled. Catching himself on the doorframe, he advanced forward, a bolt of lightning allowed him enough illumination to make it to the bar across the room. There he waited, listening to the rain pounding down in angry torrents on the roof. With the aid of another sky-splitting lightning strike, he turned and used all his strength to throw four large switches on the east wall.  
  
An electrical humming commenced immediately, and as it got stronger and louder, the light flickered once and came on. They were energized by the four power generators Tommy had bought from an underground provider. Some of the same stuff was sold to hospitals. It was nothing but top grade for a guy like Tommy Vercetti. He had received them a year ago, and with Vice City's vicious temperament, they had proved to be quite useful.  
  
Tommy turned around and came face to face with Ken Rosenberg, who was standing not three inches away from him. Tommy jumped backwards, uttering a small sound of quiet surprise. He found himself backed up against the wall. "What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?"  
  
Ken himself had started, only he had toppled over the back of the couch. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, trying to get himself back into a sitting position. "I'm sorry Tommy. You told me not to move. I didn't move. I thought you'd seen me."  
  
"How the hell could I have seen --- You know what? Whatever. I don't care." His eyes shifted to the flicker images on the television screen. Ken finally managed to get up. He pulled at his jacket before clearing his throat. "Turn it up," Tommy demanded suddenly, moving quickly around the end table.  
  
Ken found the remote control under one of the couch cushions and turned up the volume, unsure of what Tommy was so excited about. A stunning newscaster in an alarmingly red jacket was saying,  
  
"--- brutal murder that police suspect is the result of a disagreement between two mob relations. The residents of Belville Park on Staunton Island were alerted to the strife after a number of shots where fired. The police have confirmed that the victim appears to be professional killer, Christian Vercetti. Police chief Carl Santos his furthering his investigation into a specialized hit--"  
  
"Shut it off," Tommy said, his voice low and dangerous.  
  
Ken did so without a word.  
  
Tommy turned to him, his expression baleful and his eyes angry. "We're going hunting."  
  
The rain pounded against the windshield ferociously, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Ken Rosenberg shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the red Infernus, afraid the windshield would smash in under the strain of the heave precipitation. Tommy sat next to him, doing his best to steer the wheels against the slick roads. It was almost an uphill battle. His eyes stared forward blankly, almost like they were just staring in to space. His face completely lacked emotion. Ken peered at him behind his red-rimmed glasses, but didn't say anything in fear of being yelled at. He may have been dumb, but he knew all too well that Tommy Vercetti was not a man one can make angry and then leave unscathed. He turned on the radio, and he turned the little knob to make the volume low. He began to tap his fingers gently to the rhythm of the song.   
  
"Turn it off," Tommy said in a quiet, reserved tone, still staring straight ahead. It was beginning to make Ken nervous, the way Tommy wasn't looking at him. He wondered just what was going on, and what about it made his friend so uptight. Tommy always had something to say to make light of any situation, but with the way he was acting now, Ken was left to believe the sky was falling or something.  
  
Ken did as he was told and quickly shut it off. He sat there listening to the rain pounding against the little car, unsure of what to do. He was to hyper to sit still; the drugs were affecting his nervous system. For the next five minutes there was an eerie silence that was driving Ken nuts. The silence rang in his ears. Unable to take it anymore, he built up enough courage to finally speak.  
  
"Uh, Tommy, where are we going?" He asked quietly.  
  
Tommy continued to stare ahead for a long moment, as if he didn't hear what the lawyer had asked. Then, for the first time since they had gotten in the car, Tommy looked over at him. He gazed at Ken intimately as if he was unsure of what to tell him, then said in a normal tone, "The Mafia has to pay for what they did, but we're are going to need a good team if we're going to stand a chance against them."  
  
"Tommy, what are you talking about? We.I mean you have already taken care of the Mob, remember? The big fight, all the shooting, all those corpses," Ken said shuttering as he pictured it all.  
  
"That's not what I'm talking about, Ken. There is only one Family left up in Liberty, and they took it upon themselves, thought it was a good idea maybe--" He trailed off, obviously choking on his anger. "They killed my brother," he said at last  
  
"I never knew you had a brother," Ken said furrowing his brows.  
  
"That's because I never told you, Ken. His name is Christian; he ran things up in Liberty. He was a good kid, knew what he was doing and knew to keep his mouth shut."  
  
Unsure of what to say, Ken turned back to the road and was silent. He was still trying to figure out what Tommy was talking about. Brother? Why hadn't Tommy ever told him he had a brother? He felt a little offended. He had known Tommy for a long time now, and the least the guy could have done was share information like that.  
  
The rest of the ride was silent and smooth, well; smooth if you don't count Tommy almost hitting an old lady that was crossing the street. Ken had shrieked and Tommy seemed to come out of his trance. Swerving around the old lady and dodging three cars in the intersection and hydroplaning and good distance, they had managed to get back on their side of the road and continue on their way.   
  
When they arrived at Phil Cassidy's place, which consisted of a huge carport to the left and trailer to the right, they were met with silence. They wondered if anyone was home at first, but soon spotted Phil's blue and white pick-up out front. The trailer was quite old and looked as if it would collapse any second. It was white and had a faded blue stripe across it. The paint was peeling off, revealing a dull gray. As they walked to the trailer, the dust from the dirt flew up behind and into Ken's face, who had to take off his glasses and clean them.  
  
When they reached the front door, they knocked once before it was answered. When the door opened, a one-armed, ex-army man stood there, gazing out at them, shotgun in hand. His forest green shirt was stained with alcohol and grease. His dirty-dishwasher blonde hair was poorly combed back. The scent of boom shine lingered heavily in the air, causing Tommy and Ken to cover their mouth and noses with their sleeves.  
  
"Dammit Phil, are you always high on that shit?" Tommy mingled between coughs.  
  
Phil gazed down at them from the top of the old cement steps, as if uncertain if they posed a threat. His eyes were glazed over, and he wore a somewhat suspicious expression, as if he didn't know whom they were. Then, suddenly, a wide grin surfaced on his rough face. "Howdy Tommy! Long time no see!" he yelled walking down the steps and patting Tommy on the shoulder. Tommy jerked backward a little, unsure of what Phil was going to do with that gun of his.  
  
Phil Cassidy, the "One-Armed Bandit" as some people called him, was Tommy's former partner in a bank heist they had pulled off a few years ago. Even though everyone doubted it, Phil always insisted he used to be in the army. He certainly had the artillery, but that didn't prove anything, really. His blonde hair was beginning to gray at the sides as time went by. He'd be 41 in April. He was one hell of a shooter though, if he could ever get off all that damn boom shine and get his senses straight.  
  
Now he was walking the steps to Tommy, letting the door slam shut behind him. Tommy watched him for a moment, and then he began to blurt out his plan.  
  
"Look Phil, I'm rounding up a team to go against the Mafia, I want-"  
  
"The Mafia!" Phil interrupted. "What the hell do you want with the Mafia boy!"  
  
Tommy was about to answer when he heard a twig snap a little to his left. Furrowing his brows, he begin to walk over there cautiously, motioning for Ken and Phil to follow. They crept around to the side of the house and found footprints in the mud. Tommy walked around back just in time to see something run around the other side. He broke in to a run, Ken and Phil did the same.  
  
"Who's there?!" Tommy yelled.  
  
He got no reply. As he rounded the corner, he saw a man dressed in a purple shirt and white pants jump in to the passenger seat of a waiting purple Voodoo and drive off. He car fishtailed it out of the lot. Tommy made a mad dash for his own car, only to find that the wheels had been slashed.  
  
"Shit!" He yelled throwing his hands up in the air. He turned to Ken and Phil who were now kneeling behind him, inhaling deeply.  
  
"Who the hell was that?" Phil blurted out after finally catching his breath.  
  
Tommy knew all to well who it was. They were the fucking Haitians. He hated those damn rats; he'd killed many of them before. It was no wonder to Tommy that he was probably a real 'hit' at any Haitian party.  
  
"Look," Tommy said seriously, "we can't go around wondering the streets by ourselves right now. We'll go back to my place and let my people go round them up. These damn Haitians are really pissing me off, and I think they're up to something." 


End file.
